(in fire and blood)
by arsenous elation
Summary: Because I love you, Love. —Sigyn, Loki, Sif, Fandral—


**A/N:** Cross posted from my AO3 account.

* * *

BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, L O V E  
_(in fire and blood)_

| Sigyn, Loki, Sif, Fandral |

—-—

_« arsenous elation »_

—-—

1 _of _2

* * *

Snow falls at midnight. It begins in a flurry, orchestrates itself into a howling blizzard, and then dies a quiet death. From above, the whole of Asgard is a field of lights against a canvas of pure white and ice, the Gladsheim Palace a glorified spectacle even in the Midwinter's quiescence.

On the ground, a golden bracelet lies half-buried in the crud, forgotten.

* * *

I – lacrimosa

After, after the silence finally seeped through the screams, Sif brings herself to look up from her bloodied hands and into the open room.

The attendants, Sif's mother, the Queen, have all left. Only the shadows dare to move—they dance in the flickering candlelight. The second prince sits by his wife, his form a perfect study of stillness and restraint. Loki does not show that he grieves.

Amid the sea of stained and rumpled sheets, Sigyn is unmoving. Her tears have long dried. Now she stares, blank, empty, into space. Sif doesn't see Thor until he is holding her hand, leading her away. Sif almost doesn't move, watches the real, slow movement inside. She seizes the ugly sensation in her chest, clenches her gut, bites her tongue._ It is not your fault_, Sif's mother will tell her later, _you did your best. _But the way the light catches the green of Loki's eyes tells her differently.

(you should have run faster, should have, should have—)

Slowly, slowly, Sigyn lifts a fragile hand, reaches out to touch her now-hollow stomach, the gesture postulating, _what have I done?  
_(to deserve this, to do this to my child?)

The child was a boy.

* * *

II – the wedding (in three, two, one)

The wedding is a blessing is a feast is fatalism at its finest.

Loki holds Sigyn's hand aloft, leads her to the center of the hall for a dance. Everyone applauds with approval. For this momentous occasion, Asgard pays a rare amount of generous extolment to the second prince for such a splendid match. And Loki, the ever charmer, does not disappoint; he dips his head, eyes bright, and kisses his bride's knuckles alight.

Crown prince or not, Loki's marriage to Sigyn will bring only good to the kingdom.  
(an heir from the spare, everyone agrees, just _in_ case)

In the corner, a shadow lurks and waits. His gaze tickles Sigyn's spine like an unreachable itch.

"There's something wrong here." Sif says, watches as the union of the millennia unfolds in a Terpsichore.

The halls are festooned with banners, the golden walls lit by equally golden fires. In the distance, there is quiet murmur (of the long, long dead) but all around, laughter.

Between bites of seared, spiced, wined meat, Volstagg asks, "Is that paranoia I hear Lady Sif?"

Fandral laughs, the tease. Already drunk before he's touched the ale, "Or is it jealousy?" It is an innocent enough remark, but there is this look in his eyes that is sharp and half-accusing, half-mocking.

"You jest, Fandral." Sif hisses, tears her gaze away. A sour sensation churns unpleasantly in her stomach at the frivolity, the foolishness of everything.

Loki twirls his bride slowly, his bright sea eyes pulling something unnamable in her. The wife smiles a saccharine smile.

Volstagg continues in his devouring. Sif tries not to choke.  
(and Fandral does not miss a beat.)

* * *

III – shared sleep

On the first night of their marriage, it is not Sigyn whom Loki calls out to in his dreams. The name is a secret prayer, a blaspheme in her husband's lips that Sigyn almost feels ashamed that she is there to hear it. So she goes out and closes the doors behind her, does not return until she has exhausted herself from walking.

That same night, Sigyn finds out for herself why the Lady Sif's hair is black.

When she slips back unto their bed, Loki's warmth no longer feels like an embrace. But his hand reaches out from under the covers, finds Sigyn's hand, clasps it tightly. He does not let go of her until the morning star rises.

Myth: Sigyn learns to cope.


End file.
